The Stars in Her Eyes
by Vendelyn Silverhawk
Summary: Sherlock Holmes doesn't do romance, or charity, or the impossible. Not until he keeps running into the mysterious Luna Lovegood, that is. With each encounter things get stranger and make even less sense, until the consulting detective is determined to get to the bottom of this girl's strange existence and save her- in the most unlikely of ways.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I'm back! My sincerest apologies for the long hiatus- I've been trying to avoid general computers for Lent and with tumblr went half of my inspiration, not to mention the fact that i had to draft out the plot of this baby. So... this is the first installment in what will be a five-part series centering around Luna Lovegood/Sherlock Holmes. The third part which takes place after this story and its to-be-written sequel, is already up and called "Blue as Blue." Anyways, i will hopefully update once a week with this one, two weeks only if necessary. I hope you enjoy!

**Prologue:**

Drifting, whirling, floating, falling, draping itself across anything and everything, the cool mist blanketed the world in a shroud demanding absolute stillness, and absolute silence, and a peaceful moment in the midst of the concrete warzone.

The violin playing "La Claire de Lune" which waltzed from the windows of a little flat just outside London Central was the single exception to the still moment. The haunting melody wound through the streets on the back of an uncommonly chill spring wind and assaulted the ears of all who dared to be outside on such a dreary, tranquil day, and if the looming cumulus nimbus clouds had not emptied the streets, the violin soon did. No one appreciated classical music anymore.

Through the cobbled streets and twisting allies the herald of the storm blew, a wind carrying the chill of a not-so-forgotten winter and whispering to all who passed of the coming world-shaker. It breezed past a bakery with a bored-looking counter-tender, the deserted newsstand just off the road, the brave boys roughhousing subduedly in the shadows of their homes. London was ready for the storm, and one man in particular- peculiar enough not to mind the wind when it pranced through his open window and his living room- was impatient for it.

The lonely movement of the bow in his hand artfully concealed the anger in his eyes, the relaxed nature of his posture betraying nothing of the rigid fury that would tear him apart if he allowed his composure to slip. The brilliant mind beneath a tangle of oak-colored curls walked the tenuous line between genius and madness- and he had never been closer to the wrong end than now.

"It's freezing in here, Sherlock!" The straight-backed man with close-cropped blonde hair and blue eyes exclaimed upon finding his associate standing in the middle of the room, both windows thrown all the way open. Sherlock, in nothing but his thin black suit, made no comment but to keep playing.

"No wonder the heating bills keep going up. Do you _want_ to freeze?" He mumbled, shuttering first one window, then the other. Turning to Sherlock and seeing the consulting detective completely unresponsive to him, a frown creased John Watson's earnest forehead.

"Sherlock?" Still nothing. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

The violin stopped suddenly, and Watson became distinctly aware of how quiet it really was. As if the whole world had ordered itself silent. He hadn't noticed before because Sherlock Holmes was never one for following the rules.

"Am I alright?" The whisper was barely audible, but Watson could hear the deep, rich, resonant timbre of his voice and immediately registered the condescending disbelief just behind a clinical monotone.

"Yes. _Are you alright_?" Watson plowed on in genuine concern for his friend. If everyone was too scared to knock down his defenses every once and a while then he would always suffer alone. Watson couldn't bear the thought o Sherlock- his only friend- completely alone.

A small stream of air _hissed_ from the pale man's nostrils, the shadows on his jaw lengthening when his teeth clenched. Watson saw not a man, but a tiger, crouched and tensed, and it would take less than the blink of an eye for Sherlock Holmes to snap.

Finally he let the violin drop completely, long, slender fingers toying with the end knobs convulsively on its journey to the chair. Watson wondered at the whirling knotted mess of string that was Sherlock's brain- for him to be so composed and yet have no control whatsoever, it must have been hell in there.

"No, Watson, I am the farthest thing from alright." He finally admitted. Outside, rain began to pound against the windows and lent a grayscale cast to the dim flat. As soon as the drops began to pour Watson became aware of how cold it still was, and how their flat seemed more appropriate to house the dead.

Watson, without blinking, went over and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. This broke the film of ice and dust and silence he had allowed to settle upon him, and his grey-green eyes stared at the hand that dared to touch him.

"Come on- sit down." Guiding him down into his favorite chair, Watson then twisted a knob near the floor and the gas fireplace sprang into life with a small _phoof_. Red and blue flames licked tentatively at the faux wood and crept forth to begin thawing the icy room. Looking around, Watson couldn't hold back a sigh, the ever-familiar sound of one resigned to heartbreak. The flat looked so empty without her, so... dead. All of her paintings had been destroyed when Sherlock found out who had taken her and in a fit of rage torn apart half the canvases, so now the only one left was the ransom note, hanging above the fireplace. Blood splashed across the vibrant angel painting in a grim reminder of how much time she had left.

Looking away from the picture and the knowledge that there had been no word in almost two weeks after Sherlock's only lead failed, Watson once again thrust himself into the problem of the present. "I'll just make some tea, shall I?" No response.

Sherlock's eyes were glued to the flickering fireplace, flames dancing against the backdrop of his hooded eyes.

"O-K." The doctor sighed, straightened up, and walked to the tiny kitchen on two steady legs. It was a debt he owed to Sherlock Holmes- one of many- and every time he didn't limp he was reminded of their beginning. They were friends who stuck together through thick and thin, no matter what was thrown at them, yet now Watson wasn't sure what to do because this blow was for Sherlock alone.

"Wait." The word wasn't a question- it was a command. Watson turned back hopefully to see Sherlock still staring at the fireplace, looking considerably less corpse-like than he had a few minutes ago.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"We don't have time to sit and have tea- forget tea. In fact, we've never had less time." He had that quiet, intense look on his face and his fingers began to methodically pluck at his cufflinks.

"Sherlock-" There was a sinking feeling in Watson's gut- this was bringing back unpleasant memories of Sherlock's darkest cases, of Scotland Yard officers warning him of Sherlock Holmes's instability. Ever since _she_ was taken it had seemed like he was teetering on the edge of madness, and now he wondered if Sherlock had finally gone over the edge. They all knew that _she_ was dead- everyone, it seemed, but him.

"No, John- I won't stop." At once Sherlock rose to his feet, eyes narrow and filled with dark purpose, that manic thirst that scared John to the bone. The thirst for a challenge; Watson wasn't scared of Sherlock, but scared _for_ him whenever that look appeared.

"I will not rest until I have her back. Enough with the brooding, and walking on eggshells around me, and _damn the bloody tea_! Tell LeStradd that _I_ have a case for _him_, and that if it is not resolved quickly then agent Donovan's endless predictions will at last come true. If I do not get her back, the next body will be of my own making."


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: THIS IS A NEW AUTHOR'S NOTE! Readers... oh readers, there are no words to convey how devestated i am to have to tell you that there will not be another chapter until the end of May. i was recently cast in a theatre production at my school and that will be taking up a lot of my time, as well as my upcoming AP/IB exams and extra studying (because, of course, i have exams in all of the classes that I'm BAD AT). i'm so so so so so sorry to everyone, especially those of you who read from the beginning adn were expecting something long before now._

but I AM NOT ABANDONING THIS STORY! I have tons more of it already written, just not the middle bits, so there is no way i am letting this baby die, alright? I PROMISE PROMISE PROMISE that you will get the chapter(s) you deserve before June, but i'm afraid this haitus is neccessary (albeit terribly painful less than two chapters in T.T).

i understand if any of you are angry, i would be too- i never expected this to happen. again, i'm sorry, but it will be back, and it will be dazzling!

for now,

V.S.

**A/N: Hello my lovlies! Even though only a few of you took the time to review, i am so glad that i got so many follows/favorites! It has given new purpose to this little venture of mine, knowing that there are actually people out there genuinely interested in reading it! I am posting this chapter early because i have an upcoming school retreat from friday to sunday in which i will totally lack a computer, which means that chapter 2 (after this one) will be two weeks late. My condolences and i know that this chap. is pretty short and not really exciting, but i hope it is enough to sate your appetite and fuel any curiosity! If there are any problems with grammar and mechanics etc. then they are my own, as these are edited only by me, and i encourage you to tell me if there are any glaring errors! **

**happy reading! **

**CHAPTER ONE:**

_8 months earlier_

Sherlock was bored.

It wasn't the normal bored- mainly because Sherlock Holmes was not a normal person- but it was just as bad. It was one of those times when he needed something to do- _craved_ it- more than air or water or breathing, and there was absolutely _nothing_ intelligent to do. The entire world was still and not even his violin could provide sufficient amusement.

"_Bored_." He projected when Watson walked in, throwing a pillow to make more room on the couch.

Ignoring him, Watson tossed the newspaper down on the coffee table and headed into the kitchen. Probably for his afternoon tea. Sherlock jumped on the newspaper like a starving animal, ripping through the pages scanning 2,000 words per minute.

With a _slap _the paper hit the table and Sherlock fluidly flipped the gun into his grasp.

"_BORED_."

_Bang. _

_ Bang. _

_ Bang._

_ Bang. _

Seven times the gun went through the yellow spray-paint smiley-face on the wall, seven times the apartment rattled and Watson cursed, yelping in surprise. When Sherlock's hand went limp Watson barged in, cup of tea in hand.

"_What are you doing_?" He exclaimed, disbelief painted across his honest face.

Sherlock canted his head to the side and promptly flopped back down into his chair, gun swinging lazily at his side.

"I'm bored. Lacking sufficient mental stimulation. Lacking _any _stimulation, actually. _There is nothing to do_!"

"Then get a case- don't shoot the walls!"

"There are no cases, Watson! London's quiet! Not a robbery or murder in sight- I haven't heard from LeStradd in weeks. Where are the people, Watson? Where's the chaos?" His voice floated outside when he flung open a window to stare at the street in barely concealed annoyance. His knuckles were white as they gripped the window frame.

Silence reigned for a heartbeat before Sherlock snapped back to himself.

"John… Where is my war?"

**-BREAK-**

Dead leaves, blown from their home in nearby Hyde Park, skittered across the cobblestones in front of the flat, playing around her feet while the autumn breeze danced in her hair.

Foggy blue eyes stared at the sign on the door, a brass plaque next to the "221b" sign, third down from "218b." The barefoot girl in a torn Quibbler t-shirt and hiking shorts shivered when she touched the cold metal. _Can _he _help me? _

She hoped so- she was so cold. Besides, when she was drawn to this place she felt more real than she had in months. Whatever was responsible for pulling her away from the brink was inside that house. The mind was strong, and just being this close warmed the tips of her fingers and toes. After so long wandering through the cold she was drawn to this spot like a moth to a flame.

"_Sherlock Holmes; consulting detective_," she read in her fluttery voice. "Come find me."

**-BREAK-**

By the time the knock came Sherlock was so bored he didn't even want to move. Covering his eyes and leaning back, he groaned.

Watson had left an hour ago for his "date" with Mary- he was taking her to the theatre to see some new movie or another- and since then Sherlock had played the violin, tinkered with his science equipment, dissected a frog, solved three archived cases without looking at the answers and been right each time, and burned Watson's annoying cane. Watson had kept for sentimental reasons that Sherlock found utterly devoid of purpose.

_Knock knock knock. _

"No one's home!"

_Knock knock knock._

"Go away- I'm wallowing in the abyss of a blank mental state!"

For a long minute the knocking stopped, and Sherlock sighed in content-

"Would you _please _open the door? I heard you talk and know that you're there, and I need your help terribly." The voice of a little girl floated through the door, but the sharp tone of command was evident in her voice.

"I doubt _you _have anything interesting enough to warrant my attention." Sherlock told the door.

"But I really do need some help- I _need_ a consulting detective!"

Sherlock dragged himself out of the chair and strode over to the door, ready to drag some missing child back to her parents and then get the lock on his door fixed. When he flung it open, however, it was not a child at all. It was a young woman, probably 19 or 20 judging on physical maturity, but beneath the waves of white blonde hair and mature high cheekbones, blue-grey eyes and soft pink lips made her seem as innocent as a little girl. She was wearing hiking shorts and a bright yellow t-shirt with an advertisement for the mini-magazine The Quibbler on the front, leaving her pale arms and legs bare in an outfit which was completely unfit for the current low of 38 degrees.

Sherlock found himself at a momentary loss for words when faced with this woman-child, but when she smiled hopefully at him his tongue- and all its venom- returned to him. Of course, the girl spoke before he could.

"I've lost my shoes, you see, and it's very cold outside. I was wondering if you could help me find them." Indeed, it _was_ cold outside- freezing in fact, as her blue toes loudly proclaimed- but the manner of her request was so indifferent and tranquil that Sherlock could have believed she was merely remarking upon the weather, and not asking him to save her from frostbite.

"Lost shoes- boring. I have more pressing matters to attend to." Despite the small voice inside screaming at him to stop being such a cold idiot, he began to shut the door, but the girl's gentle hand on his wrist instantly stayed the motion. Her cold skin sent a jolt through his system not unlike getting shocked by one of his scientific instruments when he did something particularly risky.

"Please," she said, eyes big and round as the moon. "My feet really are very cold, and they were my only pair of shoes. If I don't get them back, I fear I shall lose all of my toes, which would be a pity. I love dancing."

"Then by all means prance around in some of Watson's slippers- I'm sure he won't mind." The girl took the pair of wool-lined slippers that Sherlock tossed at her gratefully, sliding them onto her incredibly tiny feet.

Like fairy feet, in a children's tale, Sherlock thought.

"Tell him I said thank you."

"Goodbye." The slammed shut in her face, and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief- or disappointment, because the feeling of electricity was gone.

Later, when Watson asked about his slippers, Sherlock said he set them on fire- it was a much more plausible excuse than him giving them to a homeless girl. Watson just gave him a look, checked to make sure that he wasn't hiding any drugs, and went to bed promising to hide every one of his slippers if Sherlock was going to continue being a destructive maniac. Just for that, Sherlock considered _actually_ setting some of his shoes on fire, but decided in the end that it would be too much effort for something not even remotely stimulating.

All thoughts of the moony-eyed hiker girl were out of his mind before he fell asleep that night, just another irrelevant encounter with a Sherlock Holmes crazy fan or something of the sort. It was of no consequence.

Somewhere high above his head the universe- such as it was, lacking the consciousness or form of a living but no less sentient being- laughed and cried at the same time for what the seemingly inconsequential encounter would do to Sherlock Holmes, expressing itself in alternating bursts of rain and thunder. The electric feeling Sherlock felt when he touched the girl was even more potent than the lightning splitting the dark sky in an omen of what was to come, and the stars took form in his dreams as the eyes of the strange girl.

_Little did he know…_

Watson would have appreciated the poetic irony, had the cosmic significance of the encounter- and its existence- not been hidden from him. No doubt it would have made a fascinating blog post.

**A/N: Next chapter should be up either in the middle of the week next week or the following monday (after this upcoming one). So sorry for the delays so soon in the story. Ask any questions that you like- i promise to answer (as long as they don't give away important plot surprises) as the story is supposed to be confusing. not overly so... Also, i hope i'm not taking too many omniscient writer liberties with the last few sentences? Not overdoing the poetic/fate stuff? tell me if it's just too much, please!**

_review!_


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